


my father's son

by princesskay



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Episode Related, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Neither Bill nor Holden can sleep the night after the car accident. They try to comfort each other in the only ways they know how.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 91





	my father's son

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution for the Mindhunter Discord Christmas gift exchange. Prompt from Rococoa. Happy New Year, everyone!

Bill has never been bothered with being far from home. He’s always been a bit of a runaway, first escaping to the corn fields beyond his parent’s house for hours on end, and then overseas under the auspices of the military. In the early days of road school, he’d looked forward to the three-day absences and the empty highways winding infinitely before him, but he isn’t alone on the cross-country trips any longer. Having Holden with him twenty-four hours a day has a pang of warmth and intimacy that unsettles him, and it’s starting to feel like yet another routine he’s allowed to go on for too long.

Tonight, he’d rather be home with the gnawing sense of resentment and stoic emotional repression rather than the fragility that’s currently crushing in waves from across the room into Bill’s ribs. 

Over the tick of the wall clock counting out the seconds stretching out past midnight, the sickening loop of screeching metal-on-metal and the shattering of glass echoes through his mind. Despite the exhaustion tugging at his limbs, he can’t push the burnt image of the other car smashing into the passenger door from his thoughts, or ignore the sound of tossing and turning coming from the other bed. 

The last minute nature of their overnight stay had forced them to choose this cramped little motel with just enough space in the rooms to allow two people to cohabitate comfortably. The beds are close enough that Bill can hear every restless exhale and discomforted shift of limbs against the scratchy sheets. He can only imagine that Holden is experiencing the crash over and over in the silence of the room the same as him.

Holden rolls over for at least the tenth time, and Bill physically represses a sigh. Shooting a glance at the clock, he makes out the faint numbers indicating that it’s pushing one o’clock. He swipes a hand along the edge of the nightstand, locating his pack of cigarettes beside his wallet and hastily discarded sidearm. His searching fingers bump up against the lighter, knocking it to the carpet. 

Bill mutes a dismayed curse as he stretches his arm over the side of the bed to pat along the floor for the lighter. 

“Bill?” Holden’s voice whispers from across the room. 

Bill locates the lighter, and he leans back against the pillow. 

“Am I making too much noise?” He asks, “I can step outside.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Holden says. 

Bill pulls a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth, and lights up. The initial rush of nicotine eases the anxious thrum in his veins by some small degree, and he exhales out a relieved sigh. 

“You can’t sleep either?” Holden asks, parsing the exhaustion in Bill’s sigh from among the shadows. 

“No.” Bill says, pushing up against the pillows. 

He winces as the movement sends a shaft of pain down his neck and into his shoulder. He’d walked away from the accident with rage seething through his blood, but the resulting soreness from the force of the collision is becoming apparent now that the adrenaline has dissolved. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, fine.” Bill says, “I think I pulled something.” 

“Me too. I can’t get comfortable.” 

“I think I have some Ibuprofen in my bag.” Bill says, “Nancy makes me pack it.” 

“Really? That would be great.” 

Bill leans over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand between them, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. 

In the dim wash of the lamp, he sees Holden sitting up with his knees pulled to his chest. His eyes are half-shut and bleary, and his mouth is pursed in a reserved grimace of pain. 

“How bad is it?” Bill asks, rising to his feet. “You look a little peaked.” 

“It’s nothing, it’s just my knee.” Holden says, pushing sheets back from his legs. “I think it hit the car door in the crash. I didn’t realize until now …” 

Bill frowns as he draws closer to glimpse the ugly purple bruise blooming across the outside of Holden’s right knee. Tucking his cigarette in his mouth, he grasps Holden’s calf to get a closer look. 

“Christ, that looks bad. Can you move it?” Bill asks. 

“Yeah, I think so.” Holden mumbles. He extends his leg in Bill’s grip, and back again. He sucks in a sharp breath. “It hurts, but I can move it.” 

“Fuck. I should’ve made you see a doctor.” 

“I’m fine.” Holden says, twisting his leg out of Bill’s grip. “Really, I’m okay.” 

Bill retrieves his hand, and clears his throat. It hits him suddenly that they’re here in this motel room in the middle of the night, both of them in their underwear, and he had his hand on his partner’s bare leg only moments ago. The thought should have been enough to quash whatever protective impulses he’s feeling towards Holden - the ones that followed him from the diner - but he doesn’t want to go back to bed without making sure Holden is comfortable. It was his fault that the wreck happened, and he should be the one to rectify it - at least that’s what he tells himself as he goes to his suitcase to retrieve the pain killer. 

He taps out three pills from the bottle, and grabs a cup of water from the bathroom before returning to Holden’s bed. 

“Here.” He says, dropping the pills into Holden’s hand. 

“Thanks, Bill.” 

Holden swallows down the pills, and sets the cup on the nightstand with a sigh. 

“What about you? Are you going to take any?” He asks. His eyes are soft, dark blue in the dim lamplight, attentive in a way that feels suffocatingly soothing. 

“I’m fine. It’s nothing I can’t live with.” Bill says, shunting his gaze from Holden’s. 

The truth is, he’s been negotiating with pain his entire life. The army taught him that, secondary only to the back of his father’s hand. He can live with a few bumps and bruises; what he can’t live with is moments like the one they had in the diner, when the emotion rises crushingly against his ribs and it’s almost too much to swallow back down. 

Holden doesn’t know anything about that, or at least Bill doesn’t think he does. He’s soft and gentle, a good Midwestern boy raised in a wholesome, God-fearing family. He wouldn’t know anything about the hapless string of fathers and sons repeating back through the generations of the Tench family history into the bowels of war torn America where hard living produced weathered, angry people and things like honesty and emotional freedom were as scarce as food on the table. For a time, Bill had thought he was going to be the one to end the tradition; with the right wife, he’d believed he could construct himself into the father he was meant to be, but he’s failing Brian, and maybe he’s failing Holden right this moment. 

“What’s your son’s name?” Holden’s voice interrupts the dour strand of Bill’s thoughts. 

Bill glances away, taking a hard drag on his cigarette. “It’s Brian.” 

He can feel Holden's gaze pressurizing like gravity on his temple, drawing Bill’s eyes back around to him. 

“I’m glad you told me.” Holden says, “For some reason it never occurred to me that you might …” 

“Might want that?” 

“Be a father.” 

Bill sits down on the edge of the bed, and braces his elbows on his knees. “Some days I don't know whether it was the best or worst decision of my life.” 

“I’m sure you’re doing great.” 

Bill scoffs, “How would you know that?” 

“You’re a good teacher.” Holden says, “At least you were for me. I’ve learned a lot these last few months.” 

“Thanks, Holden, but teaching road school is a far cry from parenting.” 

“Maybe.” Holden says, lifting his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve never envisioned myself having to do it.” 

“You don’t want kids?” 

“It’s not necessarily that I don’t want them, but you have to have a wife before you can have kids.” 

“What about Debbie?” 

“Are you asking if I’m going to marry her?” 

“Sure. Why not? She seems great.” 

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to think that far ahead yet.” Holden says, a frown knotting his brow. “We haven’t talked about marriage, let alone kids.” 

“Well, I suggest you talk about kids  _ before  _ talking about rings and vows.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette and reaching over to tap the ashes out onto the tray on the nightstand. “Just speaking from personal experience.” 

“I thought you said you wanted a family.” Holden says, his voice softening despite the edge of curiosity seeping into his tone. 

“I did. I do … I just-” Bill shakes his head, and clears his throat. “Nevermind. You don’t want to hear this.” 

Holden’s gaze lingers on him, burning with a stifled intensity. Bill has no doubt that Holden does want to hear it - every lurid, ugly detail - because past history and despicable behaviors are what interest him; but Bill isn’t quite ready to share just how deep that vein of mistrust in himself goes. 

“We should try to get some sleep.” Bill says, rising to his feet. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.” 

“Bill …” 

“Yeah?” 

“I don’t know if I can sleep.” Holden says, “My knee really hurts, and I think I pulled something in my neck. Maybe we can …”

Holden’s suggestion trails off as Bill’s guarded gaze lands heavily on his wide-eyed hopefulness. 

Bill bites the inside of his cheek, trying to stem the urge rising up in his chest to give into Holden's request, to comfort him - and perhaps himself - until this long night is over.

"Is something bothering you?" He asks, finally, quietly cursing himself for opening what's likely a can of worms. 

“It’s just … I can talk to Debbie about work stuff, but I know that she doesn’t really understand it.” Holden says. “I don’t think Nancy does either.” 

Bill sighs. “I don’t talk to Nancy about this stuff. She doesn’t need to hear it, and I don’t want her to hear it.” 

“Then how do you let it out?" Holden asks, "Sometimes I feel like I have so many thoughts and ideas that I would burst if I didn't tell someone." 

“I've been doing this most of my life.” Bill says, “I deal with it, and move on. Sometimes you just have to soldier through it.”

Holden's brow furrows. He looks disappointed, or worried. Worried about Bill? 

Bill discards the idea. Regret knots his belly, and he wishes he would have kept his fucking mouth shut in the diner.

“Okay, look - I'm gonna go get some ice for your knee. That Ibuprofen should be kicking in soon. I want the lights off in half an hour.” 

Holden lowers his head, cowed. 

“Think about Debbie.” Bill says, “She’s not going to appreciate it if we’re lagging behind tomorrow morning.” 

“You’re right.” 

Bill throws on a pair of pants and t-shirt, and grabs a towel from the bathroom.

Beyond the door of their room, the parking lot is half-deserted, the cracked, pitted asphalt awash in the neon green glow of the motel sign. The uneven slabs of sidewalk leading down to the ice box are littered with cigarette butts and trash. Bill adds his own spent smoke to the mess.

Reaching the ice box, he flips the lid open, and packs the towel with a fistful of ice cubes. The faint crunch of ice shards grinding against one another tickles tucked away memories, reviving them into full-blown recollection. Behind the clench of his eyelids, he can see his mother’s face peering down at him as she pressed the ice to his split lower lip.  _ You have to stop provoking him. This is what it gets you.  _

Bill pauses, gripping the cold, steel edge of the ice box in a trembling fist. The sentiment is faded with age, but the sharp jab of pain that goes straight into his chest is hardly dulled by the passage of years. Even though his father had spent most of his youth coming and going from their lives - and eventually, mercifully, going for good - the times when he was there, if only to torment them, are still real and clear, as if they'd happened only yesterday. No matter how hard he’s tried to bury it, it’s always lurking just beneath the surface, a wound so old it should have healed by now, but that simply refuses to grow scar tissue. 

Maybe he hadn’t meant to hurt Holden - not the way his father had always recklessly meant to hurt him. He’s never intentionally harmed Brian, but it all ends the same way. Bruises and building resentment, always on the verge of something much worse. 

Bill lets the lid of the icebox fall shut with a resounding thud that echoes across the vacant parking lot. He stands in the cool summer breeze, in the ugly, verdant glow of neon, and the utter silence of the vacant parking for a long minute. The chill of the ice seeps through the towel and into his palm as he systematically shoves each flinch of emotion back down to the depths of his chest where it belongs in sequestered darkness. 

When he feels the tightness in his chest and throat subside, he strides back down the sidewalk to their room, and slips inside. 

Holden is curled up on his side, his gaze focused distantly on the crumpled sheets on Bill’s bed. He glances up when Bill comes back inside, and he musters a smile.

Bill looks away as he sits down on the edge of the mattress, and carefully presses the ice filled towel against his bruised knee. 

Holden makes a stifled sound of pain before settling back down against the sheets with a sigh. 

“Fifteen minutes should be enough to bring the swelling down.” Bill says, “If it’s not better tomorrow, you should really see a doctor.” 

“Okay.” Holden whispers. 

The moment stretches on into silence. Bill holds the ice against Holden’s knee. He thinks he should tell Holden to hold it in place so he can go back to his own bed, but the words stay crammed in the back of his throat, a meager attempt at walling off this ill-suited vulnerability. 

“Thank you.” Holden says, finally, the soft whisper of his voice fracturing the silence. 

Bill glances up to meet his eyes. 

“My dad never took care of me like this.” Holden says. His brow furrows, as if he’s surprised himself with this moment of honesty. 

Bill swallows hard. 

“It was always my mother holding me, wiping my tears, putting bandaids on scraped knees. He was always this … figure in this background.” Holden murmurs, his gaze slipping away as his voice thickens. “He never touched me, or told me that he loved me.” 

Bill adjusts the ice against Holden’s knee. He tries to think of something to say, but the acidic truth of his relationship with his own father is another level of brutal commiseration he can’t quite verbalize. 

“He never said he was proud of me.” Holden says, uttering a sigh. “No matter how well I did in school, or what awards I received, or what college I was accepted into … He never believed in me, not the way you have.” 

Holden’s gaze combs tentatively back to Bill. He smiles hesitantly despite the glaze of moisture against his eyelids. 

“Holden, I … I don’t know what to say.” 

“It’s okay.” Holden says, shaking his head. “I’m just trying to say … I think Brian is going to be fine. Maybe you feel like you’re failing him, but I think you’re wrong.” 

Bill nods, swallowing back the emotion thickening in the back of his throat. “I hope you’re right.” 

He ices Holden’s knee for another five minutes before clearing his throat. 

“I think that’s enough.” 

“Thanks, Bill. It feels better already.” 

Holden tucks his leg back underneath the sheets as Bill gets up to discard the half-melted ice cubes into the bathroom sink. 

When he comes back out, Holden’s eyes are slipping shut. He looks so much younger without his suit and tie or his sidearm to make him look official. He’s just a child, a father’s son, looking to the world for approval; and Bill has to wonder what kind of man could have missed how special his son truly is. 

“Goodnight.” Bill mutters, turning off the lamp. 

In the darkness, Holden’s whispered reply echoes back to him. 

Bill climbs underneath the sheets, and settles against the pillows with a heavy sigh. Some of the weight has lifted from his chest, but he doesn’t begin to relax until he hears Holden’s breathing slip into the rhythm of sleep. His own exhaustion overcomes him, and he feels himself sinking into dreams. The crash of metal has faded to nothing more than a quiet groan. 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


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